


The Very Last

by Amanuensis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, The Quidditch Pitch: The Dungeon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-10-24
Updated: 2005-10-24
Packaged: 2018-10-26 10:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanuensis/pseuds/Amanuensis
Summary: Snape and Harry have a D/s relationship, and no one else knows.





	The Very Last

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

Notes: For the Pornish Pixies Fantasy Fest request made by feklar "HP or DM is sub to Snape and is punished by being forced to attend all classes wearing full rope or leather harness, including buttplug, cock cage, nipple clamps, etc. under his clothes, bonus if he begs for forgiveness and abso(l)ved with a good hard fuck"  
Thanks to betas skuf,florahart, harvest_blue, and fabularasa.

By the time Snape summons the kinbaku demon, Harry is already on his knees. The demon speaks an ancient Japanese dialect Harry can't hope to understand, and he swears he can hear the notes of a shamisen playing as it moves about him, cackling and conjuring its rope.

Harry submits, chin up, eyes on the ceiling as it threads the rope about his torso. Soft susurrating whishes over his body, so delicate they barely riffle the hairs on his skin--until the demon pulls the rope tight, stealing his breath. The rope passes about his neck, under his arms, between his legs--somehow contriving to spare his genitals. The inhuman fingers lace the rope into geometric patterns--triangles, diamonds, star-shapes--that Harry thinks make his skinny adolescent body look almost attractive in their adornment.

He is always dazed when he sees the final result in the mirror and remembers that it is formed from only one continuous length of rope.

It's hemp, and it scratches.

Professor Snape exchanges a few terse words with the demon in that same dialect before dispelling it. From the demon's grins and the way it seems to be teasing Snape, Harry has the impression that it and the professor have quite a history. Harry tries not to think about what that might mean--if he is not the first student to be on his knees in Professor Snape's classroom, first thing of a morning, submitting to these rituals.

But he wants to be the last. If he's very, very good, perhaps he will be.

"There you are," says Ron around a last mouthful of eggs. "What took you so long? Herbology's in ten minutes."

Harry scoops eggs and bacon between two pieces of toast, for faster consumption. "Couldn't find one of my books," he says, hoping he sounds natural and hoping that Ron was not paying attention to the care he took in sitting down.

"You're so slow in the mornings, these days."

Harry has moved from his knees to his hands and knees. The anal plug which Snape is presently using on him is not unbearably large, truly, except for the flared part just before the narrowed neck--which allows him to retain the thing--and he's grown used to that. And the external guard curves along his cleft snugly--gives him minimal trouble in sitting.

The charmed oil Snape uses--that's the difficult part. Alternately heating and chilling without warning, it has Harry biting his lips and fighting to clear his vision, all day long.

"Are you all right, Harry?" says Hermione after class. "You looked ill there for a moment."

"Uh, no. 'M fine."

Hermione looks at him, eyebrows drawn together, for a longer moment than Ron would. She's the one he has to be particularly careful about.

Now he stands. He lifts his hands to the back of his neck, his pectorals rising in their framework of hemp. Snape looks him in the eye for the first time that morning. He looks disapproving, displeased--which, for Snape, means he's neither; it's as close as his expression can come to neutral--as he places the metal clamps on Harry's nipples. These are the smallest ones, designed to be barely detectable under clothing, as long as he keeps his robes on--and he might even manage with them off if he untucks his shirt and hunches. They are not, however, any less cruel for their size: stiff-springed steel, with rubber strips lining the vises' edges. Even the ones with teeth are not so tight as these, and they don't miss a spot in compression.

Of all the decorations--the punishments--Harry must wear on these days, the clamps are the only ones he could choose to remove and replace before he returns for Snape's inspection. But he will not: once he removed them, he doubts he'd have the courage to put them back.

Besides, he's sure Professor Snape would be able to tell.

They are spelled to loosen twice during the day: just before lunch and dinner. Harry's careful to anticipate those moments, and prepare: the moments the blood rushes back to his nipples are the same it will rush from his face--and have him crying aloud, if he's not careful.

"What's the matter, Potter," sneers Draco Malfoy, "going to faint? Class too much for you? Wouldn't be surprised; being near that great smelly lump of a giant would make anyone sick. Crabbe, Goyle, let's get away from here before we all puke."

Still standing, Harry shuts his eyes in preparation for the part he hates. Not the cockcage, no. He doesn't hate that--doesn't hate any of the punishments Snape sees fit to give him. What he hates is the moment before Snape lifts his cock and balls in his deft hand, the moment during which Harry must force himself to think the most unappealing thoughts possible--Dudley eating, stinksap exploding, Umbridge's detentions (if it's a particularly difficult day)--so that he will not harden in Snape's hand. It is difficult enough not to sport an erection from the moment he arrives in Snape's presence--denying his own arousal, killing it forcefully when Snape is actually handling his cock, seems criminal. Aberrant.

The steel tube sheaths his cock in an uncompromising downward curve; the cuff behind its base locks about his balls. Once on, erection is impossible. Harry doesn't even need the unarousing thoughts for assistance.

No part of this device is charmed. Just plain rigid steel, and a lock. Snape allows Harry to watch him return the key to the chain about his wrist, where Harry might catch that glimpse of chrome glaring at him during Potions, later in the day.

And then Harry is allowed to dress, and leave.

"I'm exhausted," says Ron, not moving from where he lies on the grass. "Brilliant practice, though. Don't know how you keep up the pace, Harry."

"Mm," says Harry, thinking how the pace is nothing, compared to the guts it takes him to put a leg over that broom at the beginning of practice. After that, he blocks it out, pretends it's just one more discomfort of playing Quidditch.

"Wait for me, after the showers."

"No," Harry says, too hastily. "I'll shower back in the dormitory. Left my clothes upstairs."

Hemp and oil and rubber and steel. These things are Harry's day. These are the things that mean Snape to Harry.

Which is why he doesn't hate them. Not any of them. If disciplining him like this is what makes him attractive to Snape, Harry wants it all.

He could give up Quidditch, and be able to return to Snape's classroom that much earlier at night. He would. But he's read the dare in Snape's voice, his face, when Snape points that out. Wanting to see if Harry can endure it. Harry will show him he can.

Though Harry wonders if there isn't a hidden message of longing, there--Snape's wish to see Harry all the earlier in the evenings, despite the dare. It's not just his imagination, is it?

Harry enters Professor Snape's classroom, still in his gear. He waits for Snape's nod before stripping it off, letting it fall where it will.

He is no longer breathing hard from practice, but his breaths deepen, quicken as he stands there in the hemp, the clamps, the anal plug and the cockcage, as Snape slowly rises and crosses to him.

Harry shuts his eyes at the first brush of Snape's fingers, on his cock, or on his nipples, pulling a gasp from Harry no matter where he begins.

"Was it painful?" Snape might be asking about something that took place a thousand years ago.

"Yes, sir." Harry is not supposed to dissemble. Snape wants to hear it.

"Did you deserve it?"

"Yes, sir." He says it more fervently.

"Shall I forgive you?"

"Only--only if you think I deserve it, sir."

These words are not ritual. The punishments might be, but Snape wants Harry's responses unrehearsed, rising to his lips naturally because he means them, not because they are rote.

Snape's breath grazes the side of Harry's face. "Would you like it if I did?"

"Yes, please." He lets it come unguarded and unchecked.

The key gleams on its wrist chain. Snape unlocks the cuff at his balls, slipping the sheath off. Harry's aching cock has been seeping wetness in its limp state for most of the day; freed, it begins its grateful rise in mere moments. Harry can hear Snape tch at that, not without amusement.

Snape spreads his arsecheeks, fingers the anal plug, and then draws it free. The sudden withdrawal has Harry crying out, shuddering, fighting to keep his footing.

A slap on his rump. "Bend over the desk."

"Yes, sir." It is a whimper of delight.

Harry braces himself with a breath as he grips the opposite edge of the desk and lays his chest against its surface. The nipple clamps touch the desktop with the smallest of sounds as they contact, hurting badly enough at that alone--not to mention the misery inflicted as he settles his weight upon the desk, the clamps crushed against his flesh.

Snape has moved in behind him; his fingers stroke the diamond patterns of hemp framing Harry's spine, a balm to their chafing restriction. Harry's cock grows harder against the desk.

Then the hands are on his arse, spreading him again, slathering something cold into his cleft, and then Harry gets both his further penance and his forgiveness: Snape's cock, pushing against his stretched arsehole, entering him with a hard thrust, forcing all the way into him with another. Harry clings to the desk's edge, his cry of "Yesss--" impossible to hold back as that blunt length pushes its way past his prostate, his eyes wet with something that isn't completely pain.

Snape's hands clutch Harry's hipbones. Having gained full ground, he withdraws a bit, and begins fucking Harry in fierce rhythm. The nipple clamps bang on the desk; Harry can't tell if they're gouging bits out of the wood or his skin, and though he moans at it, he can't bring himself to care.

He's been in need for too long; he doesn't last more than a minute before orgasm takes him. He howls, feeling the desktop become slick with the seeming deluge that shoots from his cock, seeing fireworks behind his closed lids, tightening his arse as though he can force Snape to stay inside him until they both starve to death, here in this room.

Snape does not come right away, but continues to pummel away at him, brutally, wonderfully, one hand sliding between their bodies to grasp Harry's ballsac, holding his balls in a careful grip that does not tighten beyond anything Harry can endure, but reminds him who makes the rules here.

And then Harry gets his reward: Snape's come in his arse and the sound of Snape's groan in his ears as he comes, shaking as he presses his cock deep into Harry. In that moment, control lost. In that moment, guarded displeasure lost.

In that moment, lost.

Snape does not re-summon the demon but dispels Harry's ropes with a wand-wave, takes the clamps off his nipples and rubs the soreness away with his fingers, his tongue. Harry revels in that bit of tenderness, all he is likely to get on weekdays.

Weekends are different. Weekends are Harry and his invisibility cloak, donned in the evening after the others think he has gone to bed, and stealing through the corridors to Snape's quarters. Weekends are the tenderer side of Snape, more of his tongue and less of his discipline. Weekends are what make Harry think that if there were others before him, he could be the last, yes, perhaps he could.

But it is only Monday. And once Harry has thanked Snape for his discipline--humbly, sincerely, and on his knees--he is allowed to don his sweaty Quidditch gear and head for his dormitory.

And though Harry looks forward to the weekend, that does not mean he neglects to look forward to Tuesday.

Or any of the days in between.

"There you are. You all right, Harry?"

"Yeah," he says, smiling. "Brilliant."

 

-fin


End file.
